


Toxicology

by sggkloosemo



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Autopsies, F/F, Human/Vampire Relationship, Medical Inaccuracies, Medicine, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:41:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27449572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sggkloosemo/pseuds/sggkloosemo
Summary: Eve Polastri begins noticing a strange pattern in her autopsies.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 5
Kudos: 30





	1. Twenty Quid

Eve always looked forward to the young ones. 

It wasn’t that they were pretty or full of potential that had been squashed too soon. No, their skin was just as green and tight from bloating as everyone else’s. What Eve craved was the challenge: No college kids were dying peacefully in their sleep. There was always a mystery to be solved.

As she looked down at the girl on her table, she had quite a mystery indeed. 

“It can’t be. There’s no signs of a struggle,” Bill was saying, leaning over the body, which was splayed out naked and pale like a frog awaiting dissection. He took another bite of his sandwich. 

He was right--there weren’t any signs of a struggle. Amy Murphy was perfect: a wealthy health and fitness vlogger who'd moved to London to join her boyfriend and, quote, "make all my dreams come true." Her health records were clean (as were her teeth and veins), and she had no sign of undiagnosed disease when the two had opened her chest cavity earlier that day. If not for the two small puncture wounds on her inner thigh which presented as completely fresh, it would have seemed like she died from nothing. Even the wounds themselves were clean--she must have hardly moved as they were placed there.

“Look at how feeble her lividity is,” Eve said, lifting Amy's arm with a gloved hand to show off the bruising that had pooled there when her body was left spread eagle on the bed of a five-star hotel for ten hours. Far too light, meaning she didn’t have a lot of blood left when she died. “That bottom laceration lines up exactly with the femoral artery. How is that a suicide?”

“So, what are you thinking? The killer poked her in the wrong spot once, said sorry, she said no problem and then let him try again? Not everything is a murder, Eve.” 

She sighed. 

“You’ll owe me twenty quid when that toxicology report comes back.” 

“You’re _so_ on.”


	2. Damage Control

The phone went off again. Villanelle ignored it, content to sit and people-watch in the cafe even as the people she was watching turned to stare at her and the blaring, buzzing cellphone on her table. She met them with a polite smile, refusing to acknowledge the phone until it had gone quiet. Then, she picked it up. 

Seventeen text messages, five missed calls, and one voicemail from Jack. Villanelle pouted at the screen, then put it up to her ear. 

There was a whimper and then, “Amy? Amy, please pick up. This can’t be happening. The police just--,” 

She pressed the stop button and turned off the phone, frowning. 

“C’mon,” she whined to no one in particular. “That room was really nice.” 

* * *

“I-I’m sorry miss, but we really can’t let you in, there’s, uh, been a--,” said the hotel employee, fiddling with a hangnail on his thumb. It was ugly and bleeding, and Villanelle couldn’t help but notice that he wouldn’t stop picking at it. 

“There’s been a what? This is my room.” 

She pouted and flashed her room key. The boy went red. Villanelle looked at the name on his vest: Charles. What kind of twenty-first-century teenager is named Charles? 

“There’s been a, um…” 

“Charles, it’s alright. Can’t you see?” She gestured to her outfit. An elaborate one: Leather on leather; platform boots. “I’m just housekeeping.”

His hands dropped to his sides. His eyes went glassy, childlike. In a low, calm voice, he said, “Of course, ma’am. Go right ahead, ma’am.” 

When she entered, everyone’s heads turned.

“What? I'm just housekeeping." 

One fat police officer seemed to chuckle. A man in an ugly plastic suit taking a sample nodded. Then, everyone in the room went back to what they were doing, paying no mind to the young woman that had just stomped into their crime scene in platform boots. 

Satisfied, Villanelle made her way over to the bed, stuffing her hands in her pockets and leaning over the white sheets to assess the damage. The large, red pool she'd left on the bed was still damp and black at the center, but had started to dry at the edges; rusty and light. Irritation flared as Villanelle looked at it--they'd stolen this perfectly good meal from right under her nose. Who does that? She'd have to figure out where it went. 

She retrieved the phone from her pocket and crouched to slide it under the bed. An officer approached, camera in hand, and pointed it at the stain, catching Villanelle in his line of sight. She leaned in and smiled for the picture. 


End file.
